


Catch The Shadow

by KickingRoses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KickingRoses/pseuds/KickingRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the prompt of John thinking he sees Sherlock after Reichenbach and desperately running to get to him. A light-hearted twist on the usual Sherlock and John reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch The Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> A rather simple but sweet one-shot I wanted to do after getting the idea from a prompt on the Sherlock Kink meme. Enjoy.

_Don't. Be. Dead._

Every time he visited that spot he'd make the same request to the ether.

_Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this._

Every time there was no response but the silence and the eventual sound of his own sniffled sobs.

Because he could never stop believing. It had been a whole year now and still he clung onto the hope that his lost friend could return to dazzle him once more with his brilliance. A voice in his head that could never be silenced, telling him to remember just how marvellous a man Sherlock Holmes was. And that suicide – _suicide_ – of all things would be something he'd consider for the soft-hearted. The sentimental. Death would seem so painfully dull to him. A non-existence where he was denied the euphoria of showing off his mental talents. Why would he choose it willingly?

Most put it down to not being able to take the fallout of being revealed as a fake. John knew that was bullshit. The few who did share his faith in Sherlock reasoned that perhaps his mind suffered something similar to a computer attacked by a blue screen. There was too much for him to handle and he saw no other way out.

Again, bullshit. Sherlock always saw a way out. The man saw everything.

John no longer came to this spot to grieve anymore. He began to wonder if he'd ever started grieving at all. He'd been hurting, sure. He'd seen his best friend's head shattered on the pavement like a watermelon, who wouldn't be a little shell-shocked from that? And John missed him because he wasn't around and he had no idea where to find him. John was angry because everyone was calling him a fake and his absence only confirmed their idiotic beliefs. Not a single one of those feelings linked to any kind of acceptance that his friend was dead. He was just...not here right now.

So whenever John would visit Sherlock's grave, he would talk to his headstone and maybe have a little cry when no one was around to see but not for a second did he believe he was talking to a corpse beneath the ground. The reason he came here was because it was quiet. It seemed to be the only place he could really think and know he wouldn't be disturbed. He'd put his cane to one side and drop to his knees on the grass. Here John could meditate and try so hard to use Sherlock's methods of thought to fix this never-ending problem.

_Is there any way he could have escaped?_

_Of course there is but how._

" _A trick. It's just a magic trick."_

_What kind of trick, Sherlock?_

He'd seen him fall. He'd seen his body. He'd seen the blood pool around his dark curls.

" _You see, you just don't observe."_

_What am I missing then?_

The only piece he'd been able to work out so far was that, of course, it had been Sherlock who'd arranged the phone-call about Mrs. Hudson, so as to get John out of the way. And little had John known at the time that his retort to Sherlock's nonchalant mask was the key reason for that little prank.

" _Friends protect people."_

He'd been preaching to the choir. Sherlock had wanted him out of the way. Why? To stop him interfering? To set this whole thing up?

" _Stay exactly where you are. Keep your eyes fixed on me!"_

Such specific instructions, as if he'd been telling John the correct way to hang a painting on the wall.

Then there was the cyclist. All the years he'd lived in London and not once had he ever been ran into by a fool on a bike not looking where he was going. And they'd collided with such direct force into John that it must have been deliberate. Not even fate was cruel enough to stop him running towards his best friend as he lay dying. John hadn't even been sure how long he was on the ground for and when he did climb to his feet, the world was such a blurry mess of colour and light that it seemed to take forever for him to reach the crowd surrounding Sherlock's body.

Sherlock. Not 'the body'. There was no body.

At least not Sherlock's body. Maybe someone else's with a mask. The most convincing mask he'd ever seen. Too convincing. Too real.

_No. Don't you dare, Watson. Don't for a second tell yourself it was real._

He'd held Sherlock's wrist in his hand. Warm but devoid of a pulse. Of life.

_Because it was someone else. It wasn't Sherlock. It wasn't._

It was Sherlock's face.

_He found a way to stop his pulse then. If you'd just checked his other arm maybe..._

He'd just leapt from a building. How would he have been able to something like that after crashing onto hard asphalt? Not even Sherlock was that indestructible. Not to mention the dozens of people that seemed to appear from no where to surround him. They would have seen something. All those eyes, all those strangers, surely one of them would have cried out; "He's not dead!" like something from a Monty Python sketch if they'd noticed him move in the slightest. People didn't just fall from buildings, shift slightly to position themselves suitably and then fall back unconscious into a puddle of blood from their own skull without someone seeing it. There was no possible way Sherlock could...

John caught himself mid-thought with a loud gasp.

There was no possible way.

_Oh god._

Now he was doing it. After so many months of resisting, of standing his ground and never losing faith – now he was doubting his friend. Believing he was incapable of being so clever. So wonderful.

" _You think they might be right."_

Of course they weren't right.

" _That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."_

No, he wasn't. He **wasn't.**

" _Moriarty is playing with your mind too. CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT'S GOING ON?"_

John rubbed his hands over his face; "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

He got up off his knees and picked up his cane to steady himself. It was for reasons like this that Sherlock had been the smarter one of the pair. When John thought too much about something it only led him through doors in his mind that should have stayed closed.

This had all been Moriarty's little game.

In theory, he'd already won. Sherlock had died in disgrace. The world saw him as a fraud. A liar. But there was one last thing he needed to truly succeed. The final nail in the coffin so to speak.

John.

He needed John to believe the lie more than anyone. He needed John to lose faith and, damn, he was doing a great job of trying. Even somehow forcing Sherlock to tell him it was all true. If John fell then the last few fans would also give up if not even Sherlock's best friend believed in him. That's what the whole scene at Kitty Riley's flat had been about. Moriarty had been so focused on talking to John and almost blanking Sherlock. And how could Sherlock have possibly 'researched' him when Mike hadn't even told him his name before they met? Yet he'd known all about his past and Harry at first glance. Even for Sherlock it had been a futile attempt. It angered John to have the strength of his trust be so underestimated.

And yet, here he was, questioning how it was possible for Sherlock to have faked his death so perfectly.

For a second. Just for one stupid second; Moriarty had won.

John took a breath, straightened up and gave his usual military nod of respect to his friend before he dismissed himself. He turned and began limping back up the path he'd walked along so many times now. At first he'd tried to come twice a week, then it became every other weekend and now it was once a month.

Things just became so...normal again. He was working again and, despite the limp, his therapist said he was doing as well as most people do in such circumstances. He was even dating a pretty English teacher who liked it when he called her Miss. Morstan. Life After Sherlock really was _okay_ , to say the least. He knew that was a good thing but at the same time it hurt him to think that eventually his life might be so full that he'd forget to come here and remember his friend.

But he knew he'd never forget about him. No matter how many doubts tried to invade his heart, he knew what Sherlock was really like. He knew that if Sherlock were gone, really and truly gone, he'd feel it. There wouldn't be any need for his mind to wonder like this. There'd be no compulsion to discover the truth because he'd already be certain of it.

Not to mention how often, especially when John would come here, the hairs on his neck would stand on end and a chill would run down his spine. How he never felt alone even though the graveyard always appeared to be empty whenever he came. The same feeling he used to get back in Afghanistan if he was crouching from the sight of snipers. It was almost...

" _When you've eliminated the impossible..."_

...as if he was being...

" _...whatever remains, no matter how improbable..."_

...watched.

" _...must be the truth."_

John stopped. His eyes darted all around, scanning every square inch of the graveyard around him. The site was old and placed on a large field stretching out to the horizon. Trees and large headstones blocked certain parts from his vision. Any of one of those could be used as cover for whoever was watching him.

It wasn't paranoia. It was the finely tuned sixth sense of a soldier alone in No Man's Land.

He knew that Mycroft kept an eye on him. If he was honest, he'd rather have Moriarty or one of his goons playing Big Brother on him than the other Holmes any day.

Something dark moved in the far corner of his eye.

John wished he'd brought his Browning with him. He had a cane. He could do some damage with that if he wanted.

He span around before the dark spot could vanish from sight altogether.

It could have been anyone. He wasn't the only man in the world with a someone to mourn. It could've been the caretaker. It could've been the vicar. It could've been a deer from the not too distant wood. It could've been kids bunking off school. Of all the countless possibilities the tiny figure, moving towards the edge of the world in a brisk but none too obvious walk could be, only one would be wearing a long dark coat that swayed so elegantly with every step he took. Only one could be responsible for John's heart thudding so audibly up to his ears. Only...

"Sherlock."

He'd only whispered the word as if to check with himself that, yes, that was the conclusion he was going with. The figure kept on walking up the hill quite a way from where John stood.

He hobbled forwards, supporting his weight on his cane.

"Sherlock..."

He pushed himself as much as he could as the silhouette of his friend moved further away. No. No, he couldn't let him leave. There was the space of two football pitches between them at the least. John kept limping onwards, pounding his stick into the mud to thrust himself on with each step. His leg felt as if it it had been set alight. He was battling through the searing pain to keep moving.

He'd dreamed about this moment a million times before. And every time his leg would win. John would collapse from the pain or catch his foot on a loose root and stumble to the ground. Just like when the cyclist had stopped him before. This time it was his own frailty getting in the way. And every time he'd look up to see the figure had vanished. Or he'd simply wake up to a dark bedroom, smothered in the dawning loneliness despite the seldom presence of the beautiful woman asleep beside him.

But John Watson was no idiot. He knew with every bone in his body that he wasn't dreaming.

He could see his friend. Alive. Real and in motion only fifty or so feet away from him. This time he wouldn't fall. He wouldn't fail. Nothing would hold him back, not even his blasted leg.

"SHERLOCK!"

The cane was cast aside and left hidden for years in the grass. John Watson was running. Running with the speed and determination of an Olympian athlete.

The tall, dark figure had stopped at the sound of his name echoing across the graveyard.

He didn't turn around. Perhaps it hadn't been his name. Maybe he'd merely stopped in curiosity. _Of course it's his damn name._ John cursed and continued running despite the man still keeping his back to him with his hands in the pockets of his great coat. He continued running past the gravestones and the benches and the flowers and the trees and everything that stood between the two of them. There wasn't even a reason for him to still be running now the man had stopped but, _damnit_ , it felt so good. The brisk spring air was whipping his face and he wondered for a moment if this was the closest he'd ever know to how it feels to fly. He felt so light, the heavy ache in his chest now replaced with soaring hope. It was as if he'd left his body; how else could be moving so fast?

Finally his breath caught up with him and he came to a stop less than a yard from where the figure was stood silently waiting. John leaned forward, his hands on his kneecaps, feeling the stitch in his side. It had been a long time since he'd ran like that and he hadn't exactly warmed up for it either.

He straightened up, panting heavily as his lungs regained their strength. His eyes took in the back of the man before him.

_Sherlock._

_Oh God, Sherlock, is it you. Please God, let it be you._

The man's shoes shifted around, very slowly turning the rest of his body along with him. John's eyes travelled upwards, drinking in every inch of the creature as it was revealed to him. Spotless black shoes, slightly creased trousers, the edge of his coat fluttering in the air, a while shirt beneath a buttoned suit jacket, a navy scarf despite the rather mild weather, an upturned collar, cheekbones that were begging to be punched, eyes colder than ice and a mop of surprisingly unkempt dark curls.

John exhaled a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

Only twice in his lifetime had his prayers ever been answered. The time he almost died and today. As an atheist, he found it was rather irritating.

But there he was. Sherlock Holmes. Alive and well and standing right in front of him.

So many things that John wanted to say. Words that he'd rehearsed in his head over and over should this moment ever come up. An endless list of questions. _How did you do it? Why did you do it? Why did you lie to me? Was it all a lie, of course I know it wasn't but, was it? Did you think about me? Did you miss me? Didn't you want to see me anymore? Do you hate me for calling you a machine? Where have you been? Did you remember to get the beans? What have you been doing? Were you in trouble? Why didn't you let me help? Why haven't you called me? Why did you leave me? Why did you have to die, Sherlock?_

His not-so-dead friend was looking at him with apprehension whitening his already pale enough face. He could probably hear all the questions buzzing around in John's head and seemed to be waiting for John to pick his ammunition.

In the end, John could only manage to say one thing;

"Hey."

Sherlock swallowed nervously; "...Hey."

A beat.

"You okay?" asked Sherlock faux-casually.

"Mmm. I'm good. I'm very good, thanks." replied John, clearing his throat; "Er, I was having a problem with my leg again but it seems to be gone now."

"I noticed."

Another beat.

"You okay?" asked John. It was only polite to ask back.

Sherlock nodded; "Satisfactory. I was having a problem with being...dead for a bit but that seems to be gone now."

"I noticed."

Both men bobbed their heads as if to agree everything was 'okay'.

They continued to stand there avoiding each other's eye contact for a while. John scuffled the toe of his shoe into the dirt while Sherlock looked around the area, silently working out which graves had been visited that day based on the health of the flowers and where the grass had been disturbed. That turned out to be too simple to use as a long term distraction.

"So..." Sherlock began. It seemed as if it was his obligation to; "Any particular issues you wish to ask me or say to me? Just anything you need to get out, we might as well confront it now."

"Now that you mention it..."

Sherlock inhaled as if ready to shield himself.

"We're out of milk." finished John.

"Oh. Well, I'll remember to pick some up on the way back."

"Okay. Good. That's good, that's very good," John near enough stammered. _On the way back._ As in back to Baker Street. As in back home.

Another brief silence fell between them. It was a wonder a tumble-weed didn't make an appearance.

"There is just one more thing. Just one." said John, moving forward rather subtly.

Sherlock looked up to see his shorter friend had closed some of the distance between them. He didn't even have time to take a breath to prepare himself before John's foot collided into his shin with a quite haphazard force.

"Ow." Sherlock winced in annoyance rather than pain.

"Prick."

The two men met each other's eyes properly for the first time in nearly a year. The next thing they knew they were both in fits of laughter. John hadn't felt like laughing so much in ages. Even his charming new girlfriend could only make him chuckle somewhat. Now he was close to tears with the hysterics bubbling up to the surface. And Sherlock wasn't far off either.

John struggled to compose himself; "It's a grave-yard, we can't giggle."

This only caused the both of them to laugh even more. The callback to past happy memories overtook all any tension that had stood as a barrier between them. Somehow all the questions and worry and grief and blame and anger had fizzled away. All that remained was two friends overjoyed to be talking to each other again after hope was so very nearly lost.

Sherlock pinched his lips and regarded John warmly; "Are you sure you're okay? Honestly."

John wiped the wetness from his face; "Of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You have just seen someone you believed was dead, now alive."

"No I haven't."

Sherlock's brow creased slightly in worry. John grinned again as he could see Sherlock inwardly concluding that he believed he was hallucinating or that maybe Sherlock was a ghost. John admittedly hadn't been one hundred per cent certain at first which was why kicking him served a two-fold purpose.

John shook his head; "I never believed you were dead. That was for the rest of the world to think. That you were dead and you were a fake. Not me. I never did like magic tricks."

The detective stared at him for a moment with the same amazement in his eyes as when he'd looked upon the man who'd shot a serial killer dead through two windows to save him. A heartfelt smile spread across Sherlock's face which John returned rather bashfully. Sherlock reached out to place a firm hand on his friend's shoulder;

"Dinner?"


End file.
